


Band of Bakers

by BristlingBassoon



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Bake Off AU, F/F, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sort Of Fluff, gender swapped characters, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27413248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BristlingBassoon/pseuds/BristlingBassoon
Summary: It's pastry week on Bake Off and there are only seven bakers left. By the end of day one, they'll lose someone they didn't expect to lose. By the end of day two, Gene will have lost it himself.
Relationships: Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe, Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster, Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	Band of Bakers

**Author's Note:**

> Was watching Band of Brothers and GBBO over the past couple of weeks, and this idea formed in my mind and sprouted into 8000 words.

The day was unseasonably warm. Ice creams threatened to melt before scoop could even meet cone, tarmac softened, and a thinned group of bakers entered the tent.

Pastry week.

Of all the worst weeks to be pastry week, it was this one. A scorching 27 celsius. Gene tried to ignore the giggle of his Australian housemate echoing somewhere in the back of his mind. “Fuck, mate, wait til it’s 38 and then get back to me about the heat.” In a country with no air conditioning, where they had to make _pastry,_ 27 was hot enough.

Gene looked at the other contestants and grimaced. At first they had been twelve. Now they were seven. The eager bakers he’d seen five weeks ago were replaced by this grim-faced, nervous lot, hardened by the sight of seeing their fellow bakers having to leave the tent, one sobbing post-judgment interview at a time. He closed his eyes for a moment, and remembered everyone he’d seen go. Five gone.

It already felt like a war.

————————

He imagined the voice over before he even got there.

“Gene is third-year med student in Leicester. When he’s not studying, studying and studying again, he’s busy in the kitchen, baking for housemates Dan and Renee.” Not the most interesting biography, but there wasn’t much more to say about him.

The others, though? He knew they’d be an eclectic bunch, and when he first arrived for the pre-show meeting he realised he wasn’t wrong.

For a start, there were the hosts, Dick and Lewis. Dick, a clean-shaven redhead with a tight, serious mouth, was a TV anchor with a reassuring, fatherly air. He’d clearly taken the role to branch out into a little light entertainment. His husband Lewis, all eyebrows and five o’clock shadow ( _it’s five o’clock somewhere_ was his joke) was best known for a light history of mixology programme he’d recently done with for the BBC. Sure, it was probably nepotism that got Lewis the host gig, but once seen together it was unthinkable to separate them.

Gene swallowed, trying not to remember his odd fascination he’d once had with Dick Winters’ orderly handsome presence on a current affairs programme 10 years ago, and the leap of delighted shock within him when Winters had casually mentioned in an interview that he’d just gotten married to his (decidedly male) partner.

Then, the judges. There was the terrifying Paul, with his military stance and death-squad eyes. Prue, by contrast, seemed a nice lady you might find at a commercial gallery, enquiring about the price of a chunky pendant.

The contestants were less known to him. They’d of course had their interviews with the production team, and were due to film pick up shots and scenes of them at work and at home with their families, but these personal details weren’t shared amongst the bakers. Eleven other people, and Gene didn’t know them from a bar of soap.

Over the course of the day he made his impressions, and wrote them down in a mental notebook. Weeks later, he’d crossed many of them out, as if they were tasks on a to-do list, instead of people in a contest being whittled away one by one.

**The ones remaining** :

**George** , a technical operator at a London radio station. A cheeky guy, very deft with anything involving egg whites. Not the best at yeast, but he’d scraped through bread week unscathed. 

**Josie,** a delightfully sarcastic wiry butch. Utterly smashed bread week with her grandmother’s babka recipe.

**Delia** , a literature student at Cambridge. Posh, cut-glass accent, blessed with a gorgeous head of wavy dark hair, which stayed intact even through five hours of terrifying showstopper baking.

**Donald** , really good at biscuits, shaky at decoration, couldn’t seem to believe his luck.

**Rachel,** a practical round-faced vet with dark curly hair and steady hands. Recognised a fellow medical mind in Gene, who didn’t envy her her patients. At least his were all the same species. So far she seemed to be able to bake absolutely everything with competence, if not excellence. Not star baker yet, but might be the last one standing.

**Edward.** Mechanic.Fine face, red hair, accent straight from the industrial north. Distressingly good at chocolate tempering and sugar work.Definitely would end up being a fan favourite - the viewers always loved the contrast of a blokey guy turning out perfectly-decorated cakes.His masculine easiness in the tent made Gene feel self-conscious. Best not to think it.

**Gene.** Himself. Shy in front of the cameras, christ, what had he gotten himself into - but as soon as he started to mix, fold and knead, the world around fell away from him and a deep calm descended. He suspected that was the only reason he’d gotten this far.

———————

He walked to his bench, straightened his collar and sweated, waiting.

“Bakers!” Dick’s voice sounded as distant as if it were coming from space. “For today’s signature bake, Prue and Paul would like you to make a _millefeuille.”_

Right, millefeuille. No surprise, as they’d been told to prepare. He’d made 57 millefeuilles this week, and his housemates were sick to death of them. Renee said if she saw another one, she’d scream. 

He ran his hands under the cold tap, and began.

Roll, fold, bash the butter into a slab, fold the sides over, chill. He moved through the tasks as methodically as a dissection.

Gene began on his creme patissiere, when he felt rather than saw Prue and Paul materialise at his side.

“Gene, would you like to tell us about your millefeuille?”

“It has—“ he dropped a split vanilla bean into the pot, “vanilla creme patissiere, passionfruit curd, white chocolate and the barest hint of mint.”

Paul stonefacedly stared directly into his soul. “The _barest hint._ That mint flavour better come through, if that’s what you’re going for.”

“Oh, it will.”

Yes, fan favourite Gene. So good on television.

“Well those flavours sound jolly nice,” said Prue encouragingly. “I look forward to tasting it.”

The judges moved on, as if on wheels, and then it was Lewis’ turn, arriving just as he whisked the yolks into the warm milk.

“Calm as always,” Lewis said with a grin. “You’re going to nail this one.”

He followed Gene to the freezer as he took out his block of pastry, ambling after him as Gene turned back to the bench and began to roll.

“Well, it helps to be calm in medicine,” said Gene quietly, as he turned and folded the puff pastry.

“How are your hands, Gene?” said Lewis. “I hear you have to have ice cold hands for pastry, but that can’t be too fun for a check up at the doctor’s. You’re not hoping to be a GP, are you?”

“Emergency medicine,” Gene replied. “Resus, that kind of thing.” He blushed suddenly. “Nobody’s complained about cold hands before. Granted, I’m still studying and doing dissections so some of my patients were dead already.”

Lewis laughed. “Well, let’s hope your pastry is livelier than your patients. Make sure that mint, uh, what was it? Comes through.”

He moved on to somebody else’s bench, where Gene, chilling his pastry again, heard Lewis’ voice fade as if behind several doors.

He looked up and noticed Edward midway through a book turn, head down, hands carefully folding. Edward’s hair, cut neatly, faded down to the nape of his neck. He was wearing a white linen shirt, and -

Damn. Gene’s hands had stopped moving.

Dick walked purposefully over to Edward’s bench and started talking. Two red heads of hair, the low murmur of conversation. He could hear an exclamation, forced and bright and a little panicked from Edward. He tore his eyes away and forced himself to scan the room. Look at someone else — anyone else — other than this friendly, easy, sometimes flustered, definitely straight mechanic. Christ, what was wrong with him?

Rachel was already onto her fruit curd, damn her. George was doing something with chocolate he couldn’t see, Josie and Delia were behind him. Lewis gave a time call. One hour. Time to get the pastry in the oven.

“Hey Gene!” piped up Donald from the bench beside him.

Gene turned, to see Donald grinning with excitement, holding what looked like some kind of tiny wire sculpture with little hooks all over it.

“Where’s your pastry?” said Gene, incredulously.

All the other bakers were cutting out sheets and putting them in the oven, hoping for the millefeuille’s classic thousand layers, but Donald’s bench was set only with bowls. One of raspberry coulis and one of saffron creme pat. No pastry, not even a telltale smear of flour.

“Oh, I haven’t made it yet.”

“You haven’t made it yet?” Gene’s voice was low but he couldn’t stop the surprise from leaping into it. Did Donald want to forfeit himself?

“Nah, I’ve got something up my sleeve!” Donald continued, waving the ridiculous metal sculpture. “It’s a special mixing attachment, for fast puff pastry in the mixer. I ordered it specially from Germany.”

He started to unclip the dough hook and bent forward, fussing with the attachment.

“I’ve got the fillings just _perfect_ and now the pastry’s going to come together so fast— you can put whole ice cubes in it, keeps it cold—“

He kept blathering, and fussing with the mixer. Gene turned back to his bench and finished cutting his sheets. Well sure, if Donald wanted to mess with the years-old formula of puff pastry, he was welcome to it. At least Gene was sure who’d be going home that week. He felt his heart leap unwelcomely at the thought that at least it wouldn’t be Edward.

Right. Pastry in the oven. Edward’s face turned slightly to the side in front of him, talking to Rachel he supposed. He could see the curve of his brow, the lashes as his eyes moved, lowered, the touch of colour in his cheek as he laughed. Then Lewis, catching his eye, grinned again as if he knew something, and Gene forced his face back into stoniness.

Not in front of the cameras. If he was going to have a stupid crush on someone he didn’t want the whole fucking country to see it.

Gene tidied, waiting for the timer to go off, bent down, had a look at the baking pastry— damn, there was some butter leakage around the edges, his lamination might be compromised— straightened up again, paced, took a sip of water, realised he’d forgotten to put the mint in the passionfruit curd— fuck! Forget about the mint he’d promised, or make it again?

Make it again. Right. He had the time. He busied himself selecting passionfruit.

From behind, he heard the whirr of Donald’s mixer starting up again for the third time. He was just scooping passionfruit pulp into a bowl when the whirring changed to a grinding, a clanking, a juddering screech -

A loud thump and then an actual screech. Human, not from a mixer this time.

Gene dropped the spoon, reflexively wiped his hands and turned to see Josie and Rachel rushing over to Donald’s bench. He couldn’t see Donald, was he on the floor -

The mixing bowl had smashed and flown across the bench, flour everywhere.

“Help!” Josie bellowed from behind the bench.

“Hold on,” Gene said, stepping across the debris and around the bench. Rachel was holding onto Donald’s arm, his head in her lap, while Josie looked wild-eyed about her, hands scrambling, one hand on Donald’s, over Rachel’s. Their hands locked over his wrist, their fingers smeared with blood. There was a horrible greyness to Donald’s face.

“What happened?” Gene said, crouching down next to them. He tried to remember where the first aid kit was, where the first aid _guys_ were, for that matter.

“I don’t know!” said Josie forcefully. “Think the mixer attachment flew off and hit him in the arm— christ, he’s, oh god, fuck—“

“Rachel, what are we looking at?”

“Deep cuts to the arm, possibly some tendon damage. You’d know more than I would.”

Donald’s eyes dropped to his arm and then rolled back.

“Stay with me, Donald,” said Gene. “Now, count backwards from one hundred for me.”

He turned to Josie. “Josie, I’m going to need you to let go so I can see what we’re looking at.”

Josie stared at him, eyes wide. Her hand clenched harder on top of Rachel’s.

“Josie—“ Rachel said firmly.

“Josie, LET GO.” He slid his hand over hers and prised the fingers loose, until she fell back with a shudder. “Fetch me a first aid kit—“

“Don’t know where it is—“

“A clean tea towel then.”

Josie scrambled off, and arrived seconds later clutching a tea towel. Not exactly clean, it had blood on it already— but it had to be Donald’s, so no matter.

He nodded to Rachel, and then took his hand away from the wound. It was more savage than he’d expected. Deep, flensing cuts to the wrist and the back of the hand, with claw marks all up the arm, as if Donald had stuck his arm into the bowels of a whirring machine. Rachel was right, it could have hit the tendons. He wound the tea towel up the arm, pressing as he did so. He could hear Rachel murmuring to Donald, and his weak, thready voice, counting in reply.

“That’s good, Donald, keep going.” Gene tied off the tea towel as best as possible, and took out the belt of his apron and tied it tighter. “Can you move your fingers towards your palm for me, one by one, starting from the thumb?”

Thumb moved. Index, only slightly, middle, not at all.

Gene looked up. The first aid guys were finally coming into the tent, carrying the kit with them. Of course they’d come _after_ he’d had to use a fucking tea towel. The other contestants were looking towards them, bewildered and anxious. Dick brought up the rear of the first aid team. Delia came over, and following her, were the cameras.

“Right, Donald, how are you?” one of the first aid guys said. Rachel looked at him with a degree of distaste.

“Fine now, now that Gene’s patched him up,” she said, coldly.

“First Aid team were with me,” said Delia, shortly. “I was stupid enough to cut myself, and we were out of the tent for a moment. Had no idea that—“ She held up a hand with blue-taped fingers. It was shaking slightly.

“Think I didn’t attach it properly,” came a weak voice from the floor.

Gene tried to stand, but couldn’t seem to get from the floor. His leg had gone numb. The floor was covered in flour, blood, and three giant shards of glass. The offending barbed attachment had rolled towards the window, darkly clotted.

“I’m not going to die, am I?”

“Turn off those FUCKING CAMERAS!” Josie bellowed behind him.

Suddenly, absurdly, he could smell his pastry beginning to burn.

———————-

The afternoon had a weird, sour feeling to it, with the bakers told to leave everything untouched, turn off the ovens and leave the tent. He and the other two had had to go and scrub. There wasn’t enough soap in the men’s room to get the blood off, and he found himself furiously wringing his hands under the tap, hoping in vain the plain water would shift it.

“Hey, I knew the liquid soap wasn’t going to cut it, so I got you this.”

A hand put down a large, pale bar of soap and a scrubbing brush on the scanty edge of the basin. He looked up, to see Edward in the mirror, a worried expression colouring his features.

“Thanks,” Gene said, looking down at his hands again. Blood under the nails and raw from the cold water. He picked up the soap, wet it, and began to scrub.

“Are you alright?”

The water was running a little clearer now.

“Thanks, Edward, I’m fine.”

A huff of surprise. “Edward? Not even my Mum calls me Edward.” He shrugged. “Well, see you tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow?” Gene said, incredulously. “We’re still going tomorrow?”

Edward grinned sheepishly. “The show must go on, as they say.”

“How do you know?”

Edward fussed with his collar for a moment. “When you and Josie and Rachel left, they filled us in. They’ll edit around the worst of the accident, if not all of it, and they asked us if we were right to continue. We all said yes.”

“We?”

“They asked Josie and Rachel too. But if you say no I’m sure we can -“

“No no, it’s fine.” Gene said sternly. “If anyone should be able to handle this, it’s me.”

He turned off the taps and picked up a fistful of paper towels.

“Delia feels terrible,” continued Edward. “But god, if you hadn’t been there….it was so quick, I didn’t even notice at first.”

“Rachel would have been fine without me.”

“She’s not used to human patients,” Edward said patiently. “She’s glad you were there.” He swallowed. “And so am I.”

“Well let’s hope I don’t have to do it again. I’m here to bake, not be a doctor.”

Gene threw the paper towels towards the bin, missed, scrambled to pick them up, and missed again. “Fuck! If only he hadn’t been so fucking stupid!”

“Donald?”

“Yeah, him! What the fuck was he thinking, trying to make pastry with some weird attachment from world-war fucking two? Where’d he pick it up, Spandau Prison cooking school?”

Edward gave a nervous snort of laughter. “Well, accidents happen, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Edward, he’s _not_ going to be fine.”

“What do you mean?” He sounded shaken. “You said he’d be -“

“He’s cut his tendons, his flexor at least. He’ll need surgery, might not even be able to hold a pen again with that hand, let alone bake.”

“Jesus.”

“I know one of us goes every week, but it’s a competition, not a death match. Why’d he have to go do a thing like that?”

“Gene,” said Edward, with a forced steadiness. “We all fuck up sometimes. Christ, I know I’ve fucked up a lot. Did I ever tell you about the time I decided to work alone in the workshop?”

“Don’t think so,” Gene muttered.

“Yeah, well the jack failed and the car nearly fell on my foot. I was so fucking freaked out. I could have lost all of my toes. You _never_ work alone in the workshop, it’s a violation of health and safety.” He swallowed. “We all fuck up. Sometimes it’s unavoidable, sometimes we’re rushing, sometimes we’re tired. And sometimes we make it out Ok with nothing more than a shock, and sometimes we don’t.”

He put a hand on Gene’s arm. Gene trembled.

“Yeah, Donald was stupid, but he was also lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Lucky you were there. If he’d been at home alone, testing that thing out, he might have fainted and bled out on the floor.”

Gene swallowed nervously, trying not to think too hard about Edward’s hand on his arm. A friendly hand, no doubt. A steadying hand. Didn’t mean anything. What Rachel would do for a frightened horse, is all.

“I suppose you’re right,” he managed to say.

Edward smiled, suddenly. Gene could see it in the gloom of the mirror.

“They’re all calling you Doctor Gene, by the way.”

“I’m not a doctor yet.”

“Doesn’t matter, _Doctor Gene._ ” He grinned again, and turned to leave. “G’night, see ya in the morning.”

“Hey Ed,” he called, just as Edward made it to the door. “You take care of yourself, now. Try get a good sleep, and—“ he found himself grinning, “I’ll beat you to star baker tomorrow.”

“You bastard, no you won’t!” said Edward, with mock outrage. “Are you the doctor of pastries now or something!?”

“Might be,” said Gene, following Edward to the door. Outside of the toilet block the evening sun had settled, a welcome dose of calm after the earlier disasters. “Not a medical doctor yet but I’ve got my masters in pastry. I’ll have you know my millefeuille would have been great.”

“Meefway?” repeated Edward. “Is that how you say it?”

Gene nodded.

“I’ve been saying mill-foil for weeks now and nobody’s corrected me. How come you know French?”

“It’s England. They all say they hate the French but it’s the most popular GCSE second language.” He smiled. “Anyway, I’m from a long line of French speakers on my Mum’s side. Louisiana, originally,” he added. “They don’t speak French so much there anymore, but we kept it up. Call it being stubborn.”

“Huh.”

Gene looked over at his fellow baker. The sun was in his red hair, making a halo of it. The white linen glowed. It was a beautiful contrast against the rolling green around them.

“Alright, _au revoir,”_ said Gene, knowing he was being a smart arse. “ _Á bientôt.”_

Suddenly, Edward’s face lit up.

“Hey Doctor Gene, you called me Ed!”

————————————

The weird feeling continued the next morning. Rather than being tired, the other bakers seemed jumpy and more nervous than they had been on day one. Josie had a harried look, and snapped at Delia as they came in, who apologised more than necessary. Rachel exuded worry. George tried to lighten the mood with painfully forced jokes and impressions of Paul Hollywood’s bizarre GI Joe stance and steely gaze, but only Lewis laughed. Ed was quieter than usual, and the bench behind Gene was empty. He’d looked as they came in, and the cleaners had managed to get most of the stains out of the floor.

They had to do the technical as well as the signature. It was going to be a long day. Prue began with a sympathetic statement, before Paul told them to crack on and get on with it. Good cop, bad cop, Gene supposed.

With a grim sort of humour, Gene noticed the green-clad first aid officers hovering at the sides of the tent. The camera operators seemed more tentative than normal. Thankfully Dick and Lewis were steady, and went around encouraging the bakers.

Gene sleepwalked through his technical, and brought the mince pies up to the bench, and stared at Lewis’ eyebrows while he waited for judgment. He came third, and felt nothing about it.

“Hey,” whispered Ed, as they walked out of the tent. “Doing Ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied. Feeling the impending strain of the afternoon, he knew he’d need fuel, and took five sandwiches, but was only able to choke down one.

\------------------

“Bakers!” called Dick. “It’s time for your showstopper challenge. For your showstopper, Paul and Prue would like you to make…a tiered trio of sweet pies! The pies can be filled with fruit, custard, sweet vegetables if you’re completely round the twist, you name it, but they must be decorated beautifully.”

Lewis chimed in.“You can use any kind of pastry you like, but at least one of the pies must have a lattice top, so I hope you, like me, have a degree in underwater basket weaving.” The bakers giggled. “Although I suppose regular basketweaving would do.”

“You have five hours,” Dick added.

“Get set,”

“On your marks,”

“Bake!”

Right. Time to get down to business then. One batch of plain shortcrust, one of ginger, one of chocolate, easy enough to make, but had to be made now. Then there were the pears to poach, rhubarb to slice and dry, and a cassis custard filling to make.

Gene reached for his spreadsheet. Plain shortcrust in the fridge, time to tick that one off.

He felt numb, mechanical, as he moved through his list. Normally he would call this relaxation, but it seemed more dissociative. Rather than focusing, he had no idea what he was doing. When the rhubarb appeared in front of him, he had no idea how it’d gotten there.

“Gene,” said Prue, “How about you tell us about your trio of pies?”

“Rhubarb and orange custard, pear, ginger and black pepper with a ginger crust, cassis custard,” Gene said shortly. “Pear one’s going to have the lattice.”

“What kind of pastry are you making?”

“Three flavours of shortcrust.”

“Good luck, mate,” said Paul, and the two strode off to Josie’s bench.

“This is going to be one of the weirdest episodes of Bake Off ever,” said Lewis, materialising at hiselbow. “One baker down, mille-foils burnt, carnage. You’re all doing a great job, by the way. I would have had to take a week off.”

“How do you always manage to appear like that?” said Gene, concentrating on his lattice.

“I don’t,” said Lewis, amused. “I clomp over here and everyone else can hear me coming a mile away. You’re just so focused that you never notice.” He looked admiringly at the lattice. “This looks good, by the way.”

Then he was gone, and there was a time call that Gene only half-heard.

Fuck, two pies were in the oven but he’d forgotten to get a tin for the third one. The one he’d selected was far too small for the tiered effect to work. Right. Tins. At the front of the room. He washed a few sticky drops of blackcurrant coulis off his hands and set off to get one, remembering to grab his ruler before he went.

Right, this one, 36 cm, that should work. A bit shallower than he liked, but the larger diameter should make up for that.

“I’m not sure I can do this!” came a trembling voice from the middle of the room.

Gene turned to see Ed, standing in front of a huge sheet of rolled pastry that was cracking at the edges and threatening to fall off the bench. The side of the sheet suddenly sheered away and fell, as if in slow motion, folding itself onto the floor.

“Oh no, my pastry!”

Lewis, at the other side of the room, suddenly looked up and clomped over to Ed’s bench. Hah, he _did_ clomp.

“Ed, everything alright?”

Then, to his horror, Ed burst into tears.

Gene froze, feeling a sick plummeting sensation. The camera operators, sensing drama, turned their lenses to the bench.

Lewis was comforting Ed, rubbing his back and murmuring soothingly. “Ed, you’re a good baker, you’ve got time. Most of the pastry’s still there. Can we do anything for you?” He looked around, eyebrows creased, and made eye contact with his husband.

“Ed,” said Dick steadily, as he walked over. “How about we get you some more butter?”

“What about rolling the pastry on one of the spare benches so you have a bit more space?” suggested Lewis.

Ed just sobbed harder, inconsolable, as the two men tried to help him. Lewis, soothing. Dick, tidying. “It’s just fucking pie,” wept Ed, “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry over it.”

The camera came closer, its lens a dark, hollow eye, bearing cold witness to the baker’s distress.

Gene stared, turning the tin in his hands.

Lewis raised his head for a minute and caught Dick’s eye, moving an eyebrow.

“Well, shitting son of a wankstain,” said Dick, matter of factly.

“You’ve fucking fucked this one up, fuck, there’s not more to say than fuckety fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Lewis said in a cheery tone.

“Fuck me sideways,” Dick added. “And after the cunt of a day we had yesterday, this is pretty fucked, but you’re a fucking good baker, you’ll fucking fix it right up, we fucking know it.”

Ed cracked up despite himself, giggling as he cut shapes from his remaining pastry.

“You’ve got three more fucking hours,” said Lewis, “that’s plenty of fucking time.”

The camera operator moved off, defeated. Gene unfroze, and walked back towards his bench.

“Hey Ed,” he murmured as he passed the other baker, now lining a tin with the pastry, “you Ok?”

Ed smiled at him, face streaky. “Yeah, I’ll be alright.”

“You’ve got this,” Gene added. “First in technical, remember?”

“First in technical,” repeated Ed, with a shuddering breath.

“Don’t let the pastry beat you.”

He put his tin on his own bench and checked the time. Fuck! 15 minutes wasted. If he didn’t get a move on he’d be the one sobbing.

————-

“Ed, please bring up your showstopper tier of pies,” Dick said.

Ed carefully picked up the tray of tiered pies, his arms flexing from the weight of them. Gene blushed, as Ed walked over to the table and carefully put the pies down in front of Paul and Prue.

“Strawberry and thyme tart, lavender and apple pie, and a classic lemon meringue.”

Paul cut slices, his face stony and terrifying. Ed shifted from foot to foot nervously, as the cameras focussed in. The mouthful. The chewing. The expressionless faces of the judges.

“Your flavours are excellent,” Prue said finally, beaming at the nervous redhead.

“That lavender really comes through,” said Paul. “But it’s not soapy at all, it compliments the apple beautifully.”

“I never would have thought to put thyme with strawberry,” Prue added, “but now I’m going to try it. Excellent trio of pies, beautifully presented. Ed, you should be very proud.”

Dick and Lewis beamed like proud fathers, and Gene felt a smile warm his face.

His own pies were judged well enough. Too much cassis according to Paul, not enough, according to Prue. Alcohol was always a risk with those two.

Josie did well, Delia less so, with a split marsala custard pie. George’s decorations were judged lacklustre but his flavours excellent. Rachel was pronounced to have three very nice pies, even though her choice of apple, blackberry and vanilla custard was judged very safe.

But when they sat down on those stupid, teetering stools, clutching each other for balance as well as support, Gene felt more uneasy than ever. It didn’t seem right to judge them as if it were any ordinary day, when Donald had gone home the day before with a shredded arm.

“Bakers,” Dick began. “Usually we’d start with the good news, and then end with the sad news, but this week’s been a bit different from usual.”

“You can say that again,” Lewis added.

“The judges agreed that it’s been a trying week, and they want to thank every one of you for doing your best.”

“Rachel and Doctor Gene in particular, you were magnificent,” Prue said. “We brought you here as bakers, not doctors, but you’ve performed so admirably.”

“Considering I’m not a doctor,” said Rachel sardonically.

“Nor I,” Gene found himself saying.

“Let’s not split hairs,” Lewis said. “And let’s get on with it, shall we?” He grinned widely at the bakers. The camera operators stood ready.

“This week, Prue and Paul have decided not to send any of you home!”

A jolt of shock from Josie beside him, a gasp from Delia, who’d been wearing a doomed look for the past hour.

Dick beamed, delighted. “And now, for the _actually_ good news. I’m so thrilled to say that this week’s star baker is…”

Pause for the camera, which panned across everyone’s faces.

“Ed!”

Oh my god, Ed. He’d finally done it. The others leaped to their feet, stupid unstable stools tipping over behind them, and thronged around the redhead. Gene felt a hot feeling inside him, a sudden burst of excited joy. He couldn’t stand it. He bumped between the others, and seized Ed by the shoulders. Those warm, broad shoulders. Standing on tiptoe, he pulled the taller man into a hug. Ed’s broad arms encircled his own narrow back, and he could feel Ed’s flushed cheek against his. So close, he could kiss him.

“Well done, darling.”

Ed hesitated, then hugged him back harder.

Suddenly, an icy sheet descended over Gene’s mind, as he spotted the eye of the camera over his shoulder.

Well done, darling.

_Darling._

He’d said it on camera.

If Ed hadn’t heard it— maybe he’d been too excited to hear it, too relieved— he’d hear it and see it when the show came out. His family would see it. His girlfriend, probably, he had to have one. They’d see a short dark haired guy, nobody’s favourite— it was true, the weird withdrawn ones were nobody’s favourite on bake off, people liked the fun ones, the dizzy young girls, the confident mums from the church bake sale with terrible haircuts. They’d see Gene flinging himself at their friend, their son, only just managing to stop himself from curling his fingers in that red hair.

Darling.

Gene wanted to vomit. He pushed Ed away, and saw a flash of hurt in his eyes, but it was too late now. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d rushed out of the tent.

\------------

Storming out was stupid. It didn’t take the rain on his hair to tell him that. The cold rivulets of water running down into his eyes. But it felt even stupider to walk back in and pretend nothing had ever happened. “Hey guys I’m back,” wouldn’t really cut it.

He shuffled underneath an oak, hoping it would be drier, and that there wouldn’t be a thunderstorm. Or maybe that’d be better. A clean stroke of lightning cleaving him in two like a cartoon. Frying his organs more like, he thought grimly.

He looked up to see a blurry figure holding a pink cat-eared umbrella coming towards him. For a stupid moment he hoped it’d be his Mum, but no, the figure had a heavy clomp like a draught horse pulling a brewer’s wagon.

“Lewis?”

“Gene, you silly bastard,” Lewis said, ducking under the tree’s lower branches, before colliding with one. “Ow!”

“You alright?” said Gene reflexively.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just banged my head. Good job it’s made out of wood.” He handed Gene another umbrella. A green one, with frog eyes and a cheery mouth on it. Gene took the umbrella gratefully, glad they were out of the way of the cameras. Lewis gave him a thumbs up. “Now Gene, storming off like that wasn’t a good idea, although I’m sure the viewers will love it. I can see the tweets now.” He grinned. “What are we going to do with you?”

“ _Darling,_ ” repeated Gene to himself. “So stupid. I forgot I was on camera. How could I be stupid enough to FORGET I WAS ON CAMERA?”

“What’s wrong with darling?” said Lewis. “Darling Gene, are you frightened of a little affection between men?”

“It’s not that,” Gene muttered. “I just— “

“You didn’t want him to know how you feel about him?”

Gene blushed, and stared at the ground.

“Gene, did you forget I’m married to another guy? We didn’t come out of the playmobil packet as a matching pair, we had to go through all the same silly shit that all us queers have to go to to get to where we are.”

He tried to take a deep breath, but it came out more as a sob. Lewis put a strong, sure hand on his shoulder.

“Nobody’s going to like me!” burst out Gene suddenly. “I’m not a good contestant in front of a camera, I think they just picked me to make everyone else tense or something!”

“That’s not true, Gene.”

“It _is_ ,” protested Gene. “Edward doesn’t like me either.”

To Gene’s shock, Lewis started laughing.

“It’s not funny!”

“On the contrary, Gene, it’s extremely fucking funny.” He patted Gene’s arm. “Sorry, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but did you really not notice?” Lewis waved his arm broadly around. “The bake off is gay as hell, it always has been! Nobody’s going to be upset that you have a crush on one of the other contestants, the viewers _live_ for that! I’m sure they’re going to love it just as much as they’re going to love Delia and Josie’s weird sarcastic chemistry, or my stupid double entendres!”

Lewis clapped an arm around Gene’s shoulders and squeezed the smaller man, who squeaked in surprise.

“Plus,” Lewis continued grandly, “they’ve _always_ had at least one gay host and now they’ve got my gay as hell husband and my bi as hell self, queering up the tent and probably making Paul Hollywood uncomfortable, which, let’s be honest, he deserves.”

“Wait, Delia and Josie?”

Lewis groaned in mock frustration. “Do you even have eyes, Gene?”

“I guess not.”

“You guess not.”

Gene didn’t know Lewis could sound any drier, but he’d just been proved wrong.

“Isn’t that like… fraternising with the enemy?”

“It’s not a war, Gene. It’s a baking competition.” He turned to face Gene, throwing aside the umbrella, which had gotten stuck in a lower branch. “Stupid umbrella. Anyway! Christ, look at you, storming out of the bake off like your ice cream didn’t freeze.”

“Alright, Lewis, I’ll come back,” Gene muttered reluctantly, “but you need to come with me so I don’t feel so fucking stupid about it.”

“I don’t want you to come back for me,” said Lewis, “or the post-judgment interview— they can cut that, since you didn’t win star baker or go home. No, you’re going to come back and talk to Ed.”

“Lewis, he doesn’t like me.” He swallowed. “Well, maybe he likes me ok, but not like that.”

“Gene,” said Lewis steadily. “This is off the record, but he’s been staring at your arse the whole time.”

————————-

His face burned as he walked back towards the tent. The bakers were packing up, ready to go home. Best of all, the cameras were gone.

“They’re not happy you didn’t do your interview,” Rachel said warningly as he came in.

“Well, given the events of yesterday, I think they’ll cut me some slack.” He knew he was being short, but couldn’t stop himself.

Rachel gave him a look. “Hey Gene, what’s up your arse exactly?”

“Long story.”

“Everything alright at home?” Rachel said steadily. “Or is it just yesterday?” She walked over and waited by the bench for a response. Gene busied himself with putting on his coat, checking for car keys.

“I’m just tired, is all.”

“Well, get a good night’s sleep, ok? And Gene— let’s forget all about this baking competition stuff for a minute. I’m worried about you.” She sighed. “You’re so tense and snappy, not at all the man I met six weeks ago. Whatever it is, think about it and then work on doing something about it.”

“Will do.”

“Gene, I mean it. You can talk to me about anything, you know. I’ve had my arm up a cow’s arse, I won’t be shocked.”

“Rachel,” Gene said, “do you know if Ed’s still here?”

A sudden grin flashed across the vet’s face. “Last time I saw him, he was in the tearoom.”

\-----------------

These tents really were preposterous, thought Gene for the hundredth time, as he brushed aside a fringe of union jack bunting and stepped into the alleged tea room. There, in the low light, nursing a cup of horribly stewed tea, was Ed.

“Hey Edward,” Gene said. It wasn’t much of an opener, but it’d have to do.

Ed sounded hoarse. “Lewis told me to wait for you.”

“Right. Well, I’m here now.” He sat down, feeling unsteady, and looked at the man across the table, as if for the first time. The colour was up in Ed’s cheeks, and his nose was pink. His hair was tousled, and in this light, Gene couldn’t quite tell what colour his eyes were. They looked dark. Odd, for a redhead.

“Gene,” Ed spurted suddenly, “Why are you such an arsehole?”

“What?”

“Ok!” said Ed, with a shuddering breath. “Here’s what it’s like for me. I go into the tent, everyone’s really friendly. They’re friendly as hell, so happy to be there, I even forget it’s a competition for a minute. And I know that in that first week, someone’s going to fuck up so badly that I won’t be going home, so I’m really enjoying it. But there’s this guy, who’s, well, he’s polite, friendly enough, but he’s just— I can’t help feeling that he just _doesn’t. like. me._ Even calls me my full name, when everyone uses my short name, like he’s telling me off. And it hurts, because I think… is it because he thinks I’m an idiot? You know, this guy’s a doctor. He’s clever as fuck. I do oil changes and left school at 16. And then, I see how hard this guy works, and he starts being a little less tense, and so I think, well maybe that was just nerves, maybe he just takes a bit of time to warm up. And I can’t help it but I want him to like me.”

“Ed…” Gene began, his heart bouncing. “I didn’t know—“

“No! Just a minute, you’re going to let me fucking finish for once.”

“I just,” said Gene, and then lapsed into silence as Ed gave him a furious glare.

“So, the thing is, this guy’s really handsome?” Ed continued, with a tremble in his voice. “He’s fucking beautiful, in fact. And I can tell Lewis knows I think that, and Dick, and Rachel and Josie and fucking everyone. So I think, fair enough, everyone knows, everyone’s really encouraging. So I try flirting with you. And I try and I try but you just keep fucking _shrinking_ away from me, like you hate me.” There was a sob in his voice now. “Ah fuck, I didn’t want to cry again today, I’m so fucking stupid.”

“Ed, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I am. Because then I see this guy do something brave. And I think how scared he must have really been, beneath it all, so afterwards I go and see that he’s alright. And he’s —“ Ed swallowed, “and he’s not. I can finally see that he’s just pretending to be alright. The lack of emotion, it’s just a false front. And I want to let him know that he doesn’t have to be that way with me.”

Christ. Gene wished Ed didn’t look so vulnerable right now. It was painful.

“And then you broke down that wall, and hugged me in front of everyone, and you called me—“

“Darling,” Gene whispered, embarrassed.

“Yeah. That. I could feel your heart beating through your shirt, it was that loud. And I was thinking fuck, here was I thinking he hated me and then it turns out he actually _likes_ me? What have I done to earn that? But then you pushed me away.”

He turned his head and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Christ, it hurts to look at you.”

Gene reached forward and touched Ed on the arm. He flinched, but Gene didn’t move his hand away.

“Ed,” he began quietly, “I always liked you. From the moment I met you.”

“Funny way to show it,” the other man muttered.

“I didn’t want to show it. I thought it’d upset you.”

Ed laughed snottily.

“I mean it, Ed. I didn’t want the world to see that I liked you, because I didn’t want you to see that I liked you.”

“Why?”

“Well, there was no way in hell you were going to like me back. I thought.”

“What the fuck are you on?”

“I don’t know!” said Gene desperately. “I just get anxious. I don’t know how to flirt. I don’t know when people are flirting with me. I really had no idea. I just thought that there’s no way this guy was ever going to like me. He’s probably got a girlfriend or something, and he’ll laugh at me for even thinking that I’ve got a chance.”

“God, Gene, for all that studying, you really are an idiot.”

“I’m not that good with emotions, yeah.” He swallowed. “Easier to just throw myself into my studies. Never had a boyfriend. Never been brave enough.”

A bubble of laughter from Ed. “You’ve never had a boyfriend? You’re cute as a fucking button, you mean nobody snapped you up already?”

“Nobody’s ever liked me like that.”

“Gene, you _think_ nobody’s ever liked you like that. You probably just didn’t notice.”

The two lapsed into silence. Ed morosely pushed the dregs of his tea aside. Seizing the moment, Gene leaned over the table and kissed him.

Ed’s mouth was warm and sweet against his. Up close, Gene could see how delicate his lashes were. His hand, on Ed’s cheek. In Ed’s hair. God, he was so beautiful it hurt somehow.

Ed broke away gently. “You want to come over here and do that properly?”

Before he knew it, he’d walked around the table, as Ed rose to meet him. Now it was Ed’s hands in his hair, and he didn’t know it could be so hot, but it was. Ed’s chest against his, rising and falling, those strong arms pulling him closer. He grabbed a handful of the white linen, and felt a wetness on his cheek. A leftover tear.

“Don’t cry,” Gene murmured, lips against Ed’s soft cheek. “Please don’t cry.”

“Too bad,” said Ed fiercely. “I’m going to cry whether you like it or not.”

———————-

After so much tension, the silence was finally peaceable. Gene sat beside Ed on the bench, idly turning Ed’s hand over in his, twining finger through finger, stroking his forearm, marvelling the way that Ed’s arm hair caught the dying light and glowed. For something non-erogenous, it felt oddly nice. He turned and kissed Ed’s cheek.

“So,” he said, voice slow and mellow, as warmth spread through him, “did Lewis put you up to this?”

Ed grinned. He could feel it in the turn of Ed’s cheek against his mouth.

“When you stormed out of the tent, he just said that he was going to talk some sense into you. Then he was off. You know, for a guy who clomps around like a stomping toddler, he never seems angry when he does it.”

“You know, I never noticed the way he walked until he pointed it out.”

Ed laughed. “For a guy who’s very clever, you’re not that perceptive.”

“Different part of the brain, I suppose.”

They sat for a moment more, while Gene considered how lucky he was that someone had finally told him to pull his head in.

“Hey Gene, I’m sure your meefway would have been great. It’s a shame it got burnt.”

“Ah, there are more important things to worry about. Like, I don’t know, your hand on my thigh or something.” He moved Ed’s hand there, and Ed obliged, running his hand along Gene’s leg.

“You know,” said Gene, “while we’re being honest, I’d fuck Lewis.”

A surprised snort of laughter from Ed. “Yeah, I’d probably fuck Lewis too.”

He leaned against Ed’s shoulder. For some reason he didn’t mind feeling small next to him. It felt nurturing somehow.

“Would you fuck Dick?”

“Aww man, no,” protested Ed.

“Why?”

“If you’re a redhead you can’t fuck another redhead, it’s just wrong.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, we’re too rare. It’s like… inbreeding. And fucking him, it’d be like fucking my future self. Too Time Traveller’s Wife for me by far.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s this book where this guy has this immunosuppression where he travels back in time over and over again because he’s chronologically impaired, and at one point he ends up fucking himself and you know what, never mind.”

“What’s the wife got to do with that?” demanded Gene.

“Oh, she’s just some woman.” Ed smiled into the growing dark. “Ah, forget it. I’m not going to fuck either of them, just so you know. Wouldn’t want to break up a happy marriage.”

“You know,” said Gene quietly, “when I was younger, I read the articles about them. I used to look at them and wish that was me. That I’d one day be lucky enough, or brave enough to find that.”

Ed squeezed Gene tighter.

“Christ, Gene, don’t you think I’ve cried enough for one day? You’re going to have to give me hydralyte for all the lost fluids.”

Gene reached in his pocket for tissues and offered Ed one from the packet. Ed blew his nose noisily.

“So, uh,” Gene said, “I heard Josie and Delia are a thing.”

“Oh yeah,” said Ed, muffled somewhat by the tissue. “Saw them kissing behind the tent after one of the technicals.”

“Does everyone know everything except me?” Gene demanded.

“Yeah, probably. You’re dim as hell. It’s just as well I find it endearing.”

As they said their goodbyes in the carpark, Ed going one way and Gene another, it struck Gene that it’d be a whole week before they’d see each other again. Which just wasn’t fucking fair, now that he knew what Ed’s mouth felt like against his, and how Ed’s body felt in his arms. How much he wanted him, like that, and so much more. He wanted to lie beside him under the covers, his bare thigh against Ed’s freckled leg, wanted to feel the curve of Ed against him. He wanted Ed inside him, and he wanted to be inside him too. He knew it was a little fast to be so base, but it felt right, and after all, what was so wrong with wanting?

He climbed into his car, closed the door, reached for the seatbelt, and suddenly found himself crying.

———-

A knock at the window.

“Hey Gene,” said Ed, when he opened the door. “I forgot to tell you, I don’t have a car.”

“Ah,” said Gene, his heart leaping.

“I usually get a lift with Rachel.”

“Here,” said Gene, throwing his coat onto the back seat. “Hop in.”

“It’s 80 kilometres away.”

“I don’t care,” said Gene, feeling so happy he could burst.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional explanations!
> 
> Bake Off is, um, pretty different to Band of Brothers, so I had to change rather a lot. It's a British show, so I had to Britishise the characters, at least slightly. It's not a WW2 platoon, so it wouldn't make sense for them all to be men, so I decided to do some gender swaps. And the one change that I know people are going to be most upset about: in GBBO they go by first names only. In Band of Brothers, it's surnames and nicknames. GBBO doesn't do nicknames. Therefore Edward Heffron couldn't be called Babe. I just couldn't get it to work, I'm sorry!


End file.
